I am Sunday

My long-johns smeared with egg and newsprint, I am Sunday. My hair is an independent state. I won’t get out of bed ‘til dusk apart from to find the corkscrew. From the room next door comes the sound of electronic war and over it The Lover of Horses plays the guitar, the same sweet song time and again.

There are children outside, feral children with faces like chicken nuggets and dirty, dirty mouths. When we first moved here, we thought we were in a horror movie. Who puts a red strip-light in their cellar? And weren’t the tiny, sooty handprints a touch too much? I was concerned for my safety. I was, at the time, a bit of a slut. And the slut dies first.

Of all the animals known to science, one in three belongs to the group of insects known as beetles.

Yesterday I saw the cat with the human face again. It watched me as I passed and it was still staring when I looked back over my shoulder. It insinuated itself into my dreams, where it tried to make me touch it in an inappropriate way and then disappeared under the bed.

From where I type I can see a werewolf, screaming beneath the indignity of its fez, and on the wall is the constant reminder that a bread-maker can eat a cat. In this house, it is always the morning after, even when it is the night before. It’s like a shit Noah’s Ark – there’s one of everything in here, on the floor or banked up the walls. The television, our graven fool, gives us gifts, like an old episode of Stars in Their Eyes where Matthew Kelly says he is ‘down with the kids’, and in return, we receive its cuckoos with open mouths.

People and houses have a lot in common. All people have houses inside, with secret corridors leading to forgotten rooms, noises in the eaves at night and infestations in the skirting.
Everybody has somebody shackled to a radiator inside them.

There are toads in my cunt, but they have squatters’ rights.